


Tell Me A Tale - Trope Challenge

by Selkie_de_Suzie



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: AU, Fluff, Potionless - Freeform, Romance, Trope Challenge, butterfly bog, multiple au's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-21
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-16 12:37:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8102653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/pseuds/Selkie_de_Suzie
Summary: A collection of Strange Magic prompts I received at my Tumblr for the Trope Challenge.





	1. Chapter 1

**Gender Bend AU**

Marion cocked a brow at her, amber eyes gleaming in equal parts curiosity and confusion. “So…why  _Bog?”_  

She snorted, the grim line of her mouth at odds with the natural softness of her lips. “Do Ah honestly look like a Belle t’ ye?” She threw down the rag she used to dry the glasses and snatched up another one, beginning to wipe the countertop of the bar down, the tattoos across her broad shoulders and leanly muscled arms flexing and stretching with her movements. “Ye know that one song? From that movie?  _Now it’s no wonder that her name means beauty–”_

 _“–her looks have got no parallel,”_  Marion finished the lyric, noting that for all the heavy sarcasm in it, she had a very nice voice. And he really ought to stop watching the flex and pull of her muscles…

Bog snorted again, stopping her cleaning to lean against the bar. “That’s the one. Ye know how many times Ah had to hear that sung at me during’ school? And everyone always laughed at the end like it was the biggest fucking joke.” She scowled, her long fingers twisting into the rag. “ _Bog_  might get some odd looks, but at least it doesn’t get laughter. Complete oxymoron, y’know, someone  _hideous_  having that name.”

She studiously sent her scowl to her fingers, kept her eyes on them as they practically rent the rag apart, not wanting to see the pitying understanding come into those amber clear eyes of his. Damn, but that sounded so stupidly  _vulnerable_ … 

Bog had no illusions about herself, not with her long, severe face and sharp features, not with her towering height and short hair, all so distinctly  _unfeminine._  The charitable description of her looks was _striking_ , and Bog had always been one for truth over charity.

And the truth was as ugly as her. 

Marion blinked at her, clearly startled. “You’re not hideous.” 

Bog sighed, her scowl softening. This is what she got for letting vulnerability seep through. She gave him a wry smirk, her voice frank. “Ye don’t have to say that.”

Especially when she had seen his ex-fiancée. A waterfall of glossy blonde curls, a peaches and cream complexion, apple green eyes, a body that would make a Victoria’s Secret model weep from envy…

_Of fucking course you would start to fancy a bloke who has a girl like that after him, even if she is a Grade A B–_

Bog frowned, annoyed at how catty the tone of her thoughts were. 

And how false they were. She didn’t fucking  _fancy_ Marion. 

Marion shook his head, impatiently sweeping away the dark fringe that had fallen over his eyes. “I  _know_  I don’t. I don’t say stuff that isn’t true.” The set and stubborn line of his jaw softened, making Bog notice it was almost feminine in its natural lines. “I don’t play people.” 

The look he gave her was so damn earnest, and for one traitorous moment Bog felt her heart  _flutter_ –

She shook her head, giving a wry laugh. “You’re a different one, then.” Bog had had too many boys ask her out as a joke to not know  _that_  particular pain. 

Something shifted in Marion’s eyes, and now it was his turn to give a wry smile, aiming his eyes at the bar. “I’ve been told.” 

“Tha’s what Ah like!” 

O _h fuck, oh God,_  did she  _honestly_  just say that?! 

Her cheeks hot with mortification, Bog nearly dropped the dishrag in her haste to backtrack, stumbling over her sentences. “Ah mean - Ah, well, ye know–”

But Marion’s laugh was not at all mocking, but warm, and the smile he gave her was sincere. “Me too.”  

He scratched his neck, looking at her almost…shyly? “So…while Belle Ondine Griselda is great, Bog is… _different._ ” 

She looked up at him, and those impossibly bright blue eyes  _flashed_  at him from beneath her strong brow–

Something hot swept down his spine, and Marion made the mistake of looking at his feet. The sight of them dangling above the floor banished any warmth, a twisting sensation going through his guts.  _Short little black sheep…_

But Bog’s laugh brought him back, breathless and beautiful thing that it was. “Keep using my full name, and Ah’m cuttin’ ye off, Fairfield.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious, the feminine form of Roland is ''Rolande.'' I'm thinking a confrontation between Fem!Roland and Fem!Bog may need to happen =)


	2. Chapter 2

** Magic Spell  **

Marianne blinked at her reflection, and then settled in front of the glass with a sigh.  _Now everyone can **definitely** say I have cat eyes. _

This is what she got for attempting a transformation charm on the fly. A headache and a whole lot of fur. 

_And waking up in an animal shelter, can’t forget that little detail…_

God, but she should have  _never_  fled the house when Roland had tried to pick her up. It was one thing to find out her scum of an ex-fiancé would actually think that kidnapping a pet of hers and playing the dashing rescuer would win her back. It was another thing entirely to actually  _be_  the pet. 

_I swear to God, Roland, as soon as I find the counter-spell to this, I am going to do a whole new kind of neutering on you._

God, she hoped Dawn would be out looking for her. Most of the time Marianne would balk at the idea of her baby sister scrying for her – especially since she had caught the younger witch attempting to use it to find a new crush – but desperate times called for desperate measures. Lord knows what Roland could get up to…

The door to the shelter opened, a babble of voices floating in, and Marianne pricked her ears, her body tensing and her tail lashing nervously. Did Roland follow her here?

“–I’m telling ya, there’s nothin’ more appealin’ to girls then a man who loves animals! Especially cats!” 

“Ah like animals just fine, tha’ doesn’t mean Ah want t’bloody  _live_  with one.”  

There was a shimmery sort of giggle, like bubbly champagne going down ones throat. “Oh, such a  _sourpuss._  You mother speaks true, dear. Adopt a little pussy cat, and you’ll definitely be finding another type of pus–”

_“PLUM!”_

If Marianne possessed the mouth for it, she might have given a groan of horrified embarrassment that echoed the one from the unseen man as the other two voices - female, and older - cackled merrily. 

Suddenly a face was looming in front of Marianne’s cage, and she leapt back with a startled hiss, small white fangs bared and claws at the ready. _Don’t you even **think** of adopting me, especially to be some man’s glorified excuse to get girls. _

Although, if she was adopted, she  _would_  be out of the shelter. And then she could always run away and find her back home and to her book of spells–

The face was still peering in at her, two twinkly black eyes taking her in. An friendly grin curled at a wide mouth, and when the woman spoke, her voice was one that was naturally caring, even maternal. “Well, aren’t ya just a beauty? Who’s the cutest little kitty cat? You are, yes you are!” 

Marianne dearly wished she could snort. Instead she settled for rolling her eyes best she could. Even as a freaking cat, people only focused on her looks. 

“Goodness, look at those  _eyes!_  Like amber! I bet your a real spitfire, aren’t ya?” The older woman peered closer, pursing her lips. “Gonna need to get ya a comb for that fur.” 

Marianne gave her a disgruntled look.  _I’ve been on the run, lady!_

“Oooh, this one’s got a personality! Boggy, take a look!” 

There was a sigh and the shuffle of footsteps, and then a men’s voice was getting closer, like someone was bending to her cage. “Ah still don’t see why Ah need ta get a cat if ye already have Imp–”

And then the brightest pair of blue eyes Marianne had ever seen were looking at her, staring straight into her soul–

The man froze when she did, his long and sharp featured face going slack with shock. Marianne felt her heart beat against her tiny ribcage, not knowing  _why_  it was racing, not knowing  _why_  the fur on her spine was standing up so– 

It wasn’t because he was handsome. Far from it. He was tall, yes, and very broad shouldered, but gangly and lean. His complexion was so pale it looked almost ashy, and his dark hair was in severe need of a wash. His teeth were crooked and stained, his chin rough with both stubble and scars, and with her newly sensitive nose, Marianne could smell cigarette smoke and motorcycle exhaust and  _something else_ , something that was setting off all kinds of bells in her head– 

She flattened herself across the floor of her cage, giving a low growl in her throat as she glared at the man.  _Just try and pet me._  

The man blinked, and Marianne couldn’t help but notice once again how  _striking_  his eyes were–

Then a slow smile curled across his lips, making his scars stretch. “Well…ye’re a Tough Girl, aren’t ye?” 

“The Imp is ours, Bog, you know that,” the other woman said, apparently not noticing how their companion -  _son?_  - was reacting to the sight of this strange cat. “You need your  _own_  pet. If not this cat, then maybe–”

“No.” The man -  _Bog?_  - stood suddenly, leaving Marianne to look at legs that seemed more like jean clad tree trunks, they were so long. “This one will do fine. Like Mum said, she’s a spitfire.” 

There was a chorus of happy exclamations, and before Marianne knew it, an attendant was being called over to lift her from her cage. Marianne gave a yowl of protest but tried to refrain from scratching the young girl who handed her over to the towering man.  _She_  couldn’t help it, it wasn’t  _her_  fault Marianne was stuck as a freaking cat and currently being handed off to some asshole who probably smoked and boozed it up and rode his bike to get girls–

The men held her securely, one large, almost gnarled hand passing over her dark fur with surprising gentleness. Marianne felt an irrational burn of anger at just how  _pleasurable_  that sensation was. She growled low in her throat again, a warning to both herself and him.  _I’m swear to God, I don’t care **how**  good you are with your hands, I am gonna be splitting from you as soon as I can and ditching the tail and whiskers act before you can say Fancy Feast. _

God, but that scent was getting  _stronger_ , so much stronger and she just couldn’t–

Infuriatingly, the man chuckled, and seemed to slow his steps so that the two woman who had come with him got ahead by a fair distance. “Tough Girl seems to be th’ right name for ye. ” 

_And you haven’t even been introduced to my claws yet, buddy._

The man continued on, the drawl of his voice ruffling her fur, “So,  _Tough Girl_ …Ah don’t know how th’  _hell_ ye got mixed up in such a spell–”

Marianne whipped her head around, heart hammering and eyes wide as she looked up at him,  and the unplaceable scent suddenly hit her all over again.  _Sage._

_It’s fucking sage, the same kind I use–_

_He’s a–_

Bog smirked down her at her, clearly amused knowing by the shock that was evident even on her feline face. “But Warlock to Witch, it looks like ye need a wee bit of help.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Idol/Fan**

The man looked content as anything to stand on the corner, merrily singing as his fingers strummed across the strings of his guitar.  _“Don’t worry…’bout a thing…”_

People kept passing him by, the rush and rhythm of the city making them move to a beat they had to obey, any other melody unable to distract them from the pulse and stress and flow of the song this city sang. Dawn pursed her lips and delicately blew across her cup of tea, savoring the warmth of it in her hands as the chill of early autumn traveled through the trees. It was a shame. He had a wonderful voice and a sweet beat.  _Some people don’t recognize what they have in front of them…_

If a barista on her break could notice him, then why couldn’t they? 

A break she should be using drink her tea and eat her salad so that she could be rejuvenated and meet the rest of the crowd with a cheerful smile that was apparently the number one reason for her tips, and gather up said tips so that she could show Daddy that she  _could_  live on her own, she  _could_  support herself–

A blonde man bearing a marked resemblance to one of the friends her sister’s ex-fiencé knocked into the shorter man. The singer stumbled back, thrown out of his song, and the suit spared him a withering glare. “Go busk someplace else, deadbeat!” 

The shorter man straightened himself, his big brown eyes looking wounded from beneath the beanie tucked upon his head. “Man, I’m just trying to give people a little bit of music–”

The suit rolled his eyes. Yup, he  _definitely_ looked like one of Roland’s old frat buddies. “Leave it to people who actually  _have_  talent and get a real job.” 

Dawn stood up, outraged. Everyone said that Marianne was something to fear when she got riled up, but that’s only because Dawn was slow to anger.  _Except in some cases._

And then there was the fact that Dawn had a  _different_  way of expressing her anger. 

She ripped off her apron as she rushed out behind the table to them, her eyes bright and clear, her voice strong and sweet.  _“Woke up this morning…!”_  

The suit and the singer stopped and stared at her, both shocked. Dawn smiled at the singer, nodding her head encouragingly.  _“Smiled at the rising sun…”_

Tea and salad could wait if someone who just wanted to share music needed backup, right? 

The line between the suit’s brow deepened, but the singer’s face - ooooh, dark  _and_  freckled, she had always  _loved_  that combination - cleared like said rising sun, and the grin he gave her positively  _beamed_.  _“Three little birds, pitch by my doorstep…”_

Their voices blended into something powerful and pure, rising above the bustle of the block, making people pause and whisper. Dawn tucked a golden curl behind her ear a bit nervously -  _great, you’re wearing a shirt stained with coffee for your very first street performance_ \- but the man merely nodded at her encouragingly, and she sudden felt… _light._

Like she hadn’t been on her feet for the last four hours, like the song and him had given her wings…

Dawn could only do what she normally did when she felt such happiness. 

She began to dance, swaying and rocking to the strong strumming of his guitar. The crowd of people that had gathered laughed in delight, and the man happily mimicked her, keeping perfect synchronicity.  

_“Singin’ sweet songs  
Of melodies pure and true  
Saying’, this is my message to you…”_  
  
Dawn twirled around him as he spun about about her, the world rendered a blur but the gaze between them clear.  _“Don’t worry–”_

“OH MY GOD, THAT’S SUNNY ELFSLY!” 

The man nearly dropped his guitar and Dawn suddenly found herself thrown out of her dance as a million cameras were held up to take pictures of him and her.  _“What?”_

_Sunny Elfsly–?_

A hand suddenly came out of the crowd, snatching at the beanie the singer had on. He grappled at it with a yelp, but it fell off to expose a shock of hair and a red and black bandana that was a certain singer’s signature. 

Dawn clapped her hands to her hot cheeks.  _Oh my God, SUNNY ELFSLY. I was **dancing** and  **singing**  with  **Sunny Elfsly.**  _

The crowd surged forward, but the suddenly a huge man moved through them, a calm boulder in the midst of the chaos. “Sunny, we ought to go.” 

“Just one second, Pare,” the singer -  _oh my God, Sunny “Slumdogs and Sunshine Wins Best Album of the Year” Elfsly_ \- pleaded, before turning to her. To  _her._ Dawn. The lowly barista who had started a duet with one of the most famous and highly regarded music artists _ever_ and  _he had decided to sing with **her** –_

He was speaking. Was she breathing? Dawn didn’t know which to concentrate on first. 

“–I like to come back to the corner where it all started, y’know? I…I kinda like to remind myself that I’m still from these streets, no matter what.” Amazingly, the look he gave her was almost sheepish. “I, uh…I’m sorry. For, for playing you. Or, ah–playing  _with_  you. I just haven’t had someone do a duet like that with me–” 

“OH NO. IT’S OKAY.” Dawn would have arranged a tasteful funeral for her dignity at how utterly  _unchill_  her voice sounded, but _oh my God, **Sunny Elfsly**_. “I MEAN, IT’S - YEAH. SUNNY ELFSLY. AND…I SANG WITH YOU. THAT’S– _WOW.”_  She shook her head, unable to stop her elated grin, even if her face was starting to hurt. “YOU SANG WITH ME. THANK YOU.” 

And amazingly-magically-strangely, he was grinning back, looking just as delighted as she felt. “Nah miss, thank  _you!_  You’ve got some serious pipes–” 

_“Sunny,”_  Pare said, sounding a little bit desperate. 

“Right.” Sunny gave her a smile that was almost wistful as he turned to go. 

“WAIT!” Dawn darted forward, seizing his hat from the sidewalk and -  _oh my God, **I’m touching him**_  - pressing it into his hands. “You…you might need that. If you…if you ever wanna come back to this sidewalk.” 

He blinked but then a smile stretched across his lips, as sweet and warm and sure as the rising sun. “Oh, I think I definitely want to.” 

It wasn’t until he had left in the surge of the crowd, till the sidewalk was back to it’s same normal rush and rhythm, that Dawn realized he had pressed a card into her hand bearing what was undoubtedly a telephone number. 

Dawn danced through the rest of her shift and didn’t even care when she spilled a smoothie over her skirt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The user who sent this request specifically asked for Dawn and Sunny, with "bonus points if Sunny is the celebrity." =D


	4. Chapter 4

**Deserted Island AU**

Everything is cold, cold and heavy and silent, pressing down upon him like when he was a small thing diving deep into the lochs back home, stones beneath him and the sun a wavery bright smudge above, shining through the water—

The water that  _holds_  him, holds him tight like no one has in a long time—

He’s weighed down and yet weightless, floating, is this what it feels to fly—?

_Flying and the storm hit, the sea spiraling up towards them—_

His head lolls, hair fluttering over his face lazily. Cold and heavy and tired,  _so_  tired, so  _easy_  to just let  _go_ —

Something seizing him, pulling him up…

No sun, but moonlight, washing waves silver…

But he’s still so  _cold_ ,  _so_  cold and so  _tired_  and he sinks back into the water, down into the arms of whoever holds him, and some part of him hears a curse as salty as the sea who wants him so desperately…

And then Bog feels fire, fire being breathed into him, fire shooting through his limbs –  _so heavy, they feel so heavy and cold but now fire is coating them, burning under his skin_  – and burning in his lungs and up his throat so that he GASPS—

And his mouth is captured by hers, lips that are plump and almost floral with dark lipstick, a mouth that crushes his and then curls in a desperate snarl, blunt white teeth bared at him. “DAMMIT,  _C’MON!_  C’MON, FIGHT FOR IT, I KNOW YOU CAN–!”

Bog coughed, and his nose,  _it’s on fire_ , his lungs burn, he’s in  _misery_ — _“W-what–_ _?”_

The woman leans back, pushing back sodden dark hair away from her face that is fierce with feeling, her eyes that burn golden bright with saltwater that is not from the sea.  _“Thank fucking God._  I thought you were going to leave me alone.” 

Bog wants to respond but instead _gags_ , saltwater rushing up and out and he heaves it upon the sand, he’s – _they’re_  on sand?

_Sand. Land. Seas and storms and spiraling—_

They had been flying over the sea and the storm hit and—

He was drowning, and she—

He looks up at her, she who breathed life back into him, and his heart aches with pain and gratitude, his voice raw with sea salt and feeling.  _“Ye saved me.”_   

The smile she gives him shakes with a barely held back sob, but she swallows it down –  _a tough one_ — and pushes pale fingers through the dark mess of her hair. “Don’t be so quick to use that word. I think it’s deserted.”

Bog, still somewhere between shivering and the burn of saltwater, pushes himself up from the sand, and no wonder he felt so heavy, his sweater clings to him like a second skin—

He pulls it off, grunting as the night wind hits his skin, and looks around.

_Sweet Jesus._

The beach is long and pristine and utterly  _empty_ , save for him and his rescuer, moonlight washing the white sands, sending them into a sparkle that could rival diamonds. The waves crash upon the shore, the roar of them lulling, like they hadn’t been so ready to curl him under their weight, hold him tight—

The jungle behind them rustles, dark but alive, full of sounds and shadows. He sees the woman look at it with wary, wide eyes, the molten amber gleaming and anxious, and he can hardly blame her. Although he suspects that’s not why she’s shivering. “Yer sweater.”

She blinks and looks at him, eyes still wide. “What?”

“Take it off.”

Her eyes go wider still and – amazingly – a snarl comes to her lips.  _“WHAT!?”_

“For fuck’s sake, it will suck your body heat away,” Bog snaps back.  _God, rescue him from the briny blue only to think he would—_

She flushes so hard he can practically feel the burn of it from where he sits upon the sand, but she obliges him. The sweater slaps onto the sand, and she’s a tiny thing, but strong, her thin arms corded with lean muscles under the sliver stain of the moon. 

He motions her to him, and this time she shows no offense when she sidles up to him, his arm curling around her close and tight, his hands rubbing at her frozen flesh. Bog still feels his throat get tight, something that his voice betrays when he speaks. “Body heat. I…I wanted to be a wilderness expert when I was younger.”

She gives a rusty laugh, tucking the small point of her nose into the nape of his neck, obviously seeking more warmth. “Lucky me.”

Bog closes his eyes, torn between hoping his flush isn’t obvious and the idea that luck doesn’t feature anywhere in their current situation.

They stare out into the night, sea and silence both stretching before them, and then—

“Did anyone else…?”

She shakes her head, her wet hair tickling his nose. “I don’t think so. I…I was swimming as hard as I could, looking for anyone else, and you’re the only one I found. I…”

Her voice cracks. “I was so upset about my sister missing this flight, I was so  _pissed_  and I was  _lecturing_  her about making sure to get there on time and  _she could have_ —”

He tucks her deeper into his arms, his hand almost rough as he rubs her back and she shakes against him, her sobs hot against his neck. “ _Shhh._ _You’re okay._   _She’s_  okay. You’ll…you’ll get off here to lecture her again, won’t ye? Ye got to promise yerself that.”

_Give yourself something to live for, fight for._

She sniffles and then leans away from him, setting her jaw and swiping at her tears. “Fuck it, I won’t let it end like this. I’m gonna take care of myself so I can take care of her.”

He gives her a grin he can’t feel, knowing he  _has_ to, that her fire can’t gutter out now. “Damn straight ye will, Tough Girl.”

She turns those golden-glow eyes of hers on him, her jaw softening. “We both will, okay?”

He watches as she takes his hand, sandy fingers curling at his. “We’re gonna figure this out. We’ll fucking Tom Hanks our way through this.”

Bog snorts, and even with the burn it sends through his nose, that he can laugh right now is such a goddamn miracle he can’t even care. “If ye find a volleyball, you’re free to fucking name it.”

She smiles, and then leans her head against his shoulder, tucking her cold little nose once more into the nape of his neck, her whisper brushing soft over his pulse. “I’m Marianne.”

Bog closes his eyes to how the moonlight stains the sand and concentrates on her, solid and strong and  _dammit_ , who gives a fuck if they’re stranded at sea, he’s alive and she’s alive and he’s gonna keep it that way. “Bog.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WILSON!


End file.
